


(he who hath steerage of my course), direct my sail

by Combeferre



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (oh my god not another one), Celebrity/Fan AU, Dysfunctional Soulmate Relationship, Emotionally Abusive Relationship (Agent/Musician), Fan Combeferre, I have no idea what Enj is, M/M, Musician Courfeyrac, Musician Grantaire, Soulmate AU, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Combeferre/pseuds/Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(title from Romeo and Juliet) </p><p>Another Soulmate AU because I can't stop.</p><p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre live in a world where those who cast aside fate are regarded as outsiders. When Courfeyrac meets his true soulmate, both of their worlds are turned upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

“Is that another Courfeyrac CD?” Enjolras asked teasingly as Combeferre came sidling out of HMV. “Anyone would think you were in love with the guy.”

Blushing, Combeferre stuffed the plastic bag into his rucksack. “I just really like his music. And he’s such an inspiration – a bestselling jazz artist and he’s only seventeen. That’s our age. And what have we done?”

“We’ve made a marked difference to the lives of the abased and poor in this city,” Enjolras replied automatically.

“We’ve held a couple of bake sales and a car wash and donated the proceeds to Shelter.” Combeferre sighed. “I’d hardly call that the equivalent to what he’s already done.”

“But we’re using our talents to do good. This guys just a singer, nothing more.” Enjolras slung a comforting arm around his best friend. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“Starbucks?” Combeferre asked hopefully, earning himself a dig in the ribs. “Ow!”

“From the coffee cart, you idiot,” Enjolras replied, pointedly steering them towards the cart in the centre of the square. “Don’t sell out to the corporations.”

Combeferre could feel the new CD and Courfeyrac’s plastic smile burning a hole in his bag. He didn’t want to support mainstream music and the X-Factor generation. He _didn’t._ But there was something about Courfeyrac, and his bright eyes and Irish accent and smooth voice that Combeferre found hard to resist.

“What are we going to do for our eighteenth’s, then?” Enjolras asked him absently. Their birthdays were only three days apart, so they’d always had joint parties. “Mother wants to throw a ball but I’m vetoing that plan.”

“I’m not sure that I really want to do anything,” Combeferre replied quietly. “It’s a big day, after all.”

“The tattoos, you mean?” Enjolras asked, reeling off their standard order to a friendly barista. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes.” Combeferre blushed again. “It’s just such a huge thing.”

“Oh, come on.” Enjolras frowned. “You don’t subscribe to the whole fate thing?”

“Well, it works for most, doesn’t it? You only hear of a rare few cases where people fall for the wrong person or don’t get a tattoo at all.” Combeferre crossed his arms. “I like the fact that it’s controlled. The world is too disorganised to spend it searching for someone. So what, don’t you believe in it?”

“I feel precisely the opposite way to you. People shouldn’t feel controlled by fate. It’s a matter of free will.”

Slowly, the conversation disintegrated into the kind of high-speed argument that both of the boys enjoyed, ending when the coffee cart owner kicked them off his outdoor tables because it was closing time.

“That was fun,” Combeferre intoned as they wandered through the quietening streets. “When will I next see you?” They’d reached the crossroads where they split each evening – Enjolras heading uptown to his parent’s fancy townhouse, and Combeferre going towards the bus station, where he would catch the coach out to the far-less-fancy house that his parents had in the suburbs. That split meant that the pair had been sent to sixth-form colleges on opposite ends of town to keep transport costs down, so only saw each other on weekends.

“Next weekend?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre shook his head. “Work experience at the hospital. Wednesday afternoon this week?”

“Debate club.” Sighing, Enjolras took out a small personal planner and began rifling through it. “Can you do Sunday evening?”

“At a pinch, yeah. I’ll text you.” Combeferre grinned, reaching out to hug his friend. “And if you’re set on having an eighteenth, we can start planning it.”

“Great.” Enjolras’ face slowly split into a smile. “Bye, Ferre.”

“Bye.” Pulling down the sleeves on his button-down top, Combeferre turned his back and started walking.

 

**oo**

“Are you serious right now?” Courfeyrac asked angrily. He wasn’t normally the type to get aggressive, but, hey, the situation demanded it. “You’re throwing me a birthday party and I don’t get to choose who’s invited?”

“It’s all about networking.” His agent stamped a few documents on his desk with a rubber stamp and pushed them to the side. “We need to get you to collaborate with the big guns. If you can persuade, oh, I don’t know, Jean Prouvaire to play violin on one of your tracks, we have an instant hit on our hands.” Rubbing his fingers together, he returned Courfeyrac’s icy stare. “Why? You didn’t have plans, did you?”

“Just flying back to Ireland to see my family, whom I haven’t seen in over nine months,” Courfeyrac replied, scowling. “I want them flown over here if I can’t go to them.”

“Not happening. They can’t be at the party, in any case, so what’s the point of bringing them here?”

“They’re my family!” Courfeyrac yelled back. “And I actually want to be close to them when –“

“When your tattoo appears?” Dan’s nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something bad. “Remember what we said about that, Courfeyrac?”

Reluctantly, Courfeyrac intoned the rules. “I’m not to tell anyone outside of you and my immediate family, I have to cover it up, and I’m not to do anything rash if I do find my soulmate. _I know._ But how am I going to cover it up if it’s somewhere weird, like my forehead?”

“Make-up. Or there’s always the other option.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that I have my tattoo removed?” Courfeyrac asked, puzzled. It was a new technique that was currently being pioneered among the elite – essentially high-powered laser treatment, it removed the tattoo almost completely, leaving a few smudges and a scar shaped like a broken heart. “Why would you even say that?”

Dan simply rolled up one of his sleeves, where, on his lower forearm, a few ink blots could be discerned, along with the characteristic scar. “Choose your own fate. It’s not so bad.”

“What if I like the certainty?” When Dan was silent, Courfeyrac recklessly continued talking. “If – when I meet the person, my soulmate, I want to be sure of it.”

“Do you even know why I had this removed?” Dan’s eyes were angry but his whole body had relaxed – no, slumped – into his chair.

“No.” Courfeyrac sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, but I just – “

“My girlfriend died, Courf. She died a few minutes after we found each other, when she was hit by a lorry as we left the supermarket, and I had the tattoo removed a week later.” Dan’s mouth twisted into a thin line. “Love screws you up. Fate screws you up, and anyone who says any different has either never met a Dysfunctional or is horrendously lucky.”

“You shouldn’t call them Dysfunctionals,” Courfeyrac replied automatically, referring to people upon whom no tattoo appeared, or who had separated from their soulmates. “It perpetuates a society that’s focused on what people perceive to be “normal”, and it’s really harmful.”

“Save it. You’re having a party, it’s going to be at a nightclub and you’re going to like it.” Dan gritted his teeth. “And you’re going to stow the bullshit, too. Now, get the hell out of here.”

“I can’t be dealing with this.” Grabbing his bag, Courfeyrac swung out of the room, picking up his music folder from reception and heading out to the waiting car.

 

**oo**

“Having fun?” Enjolras asked, grabbing Combeferre from behind. “You look sad.”

Tugging his shirt down a little over the tattoo that had appeared that morning on his hip, Combeferre turned to see his friend with a heightened red colour flowering on his cheeks from the dancing. “I’m not sad, just tired. It’s eleven pm.”

“But are you having a good time?” All around them, the friends and family that they’d invited danced around them, unaware of the scene playing out between them. “I hope you are.”

Combeferre forced a smile. “Of course I am. It’s nice to see everyone.”

Enjolras eyed his friend – he’d always known when something was wrong. “I don’t normally go in for this sort of stuff, but do you want to go out into town?” London was a busy place, even on a Thursday evening. “You look like you could use a couple of drinks.”

“I absolutely could.” Combeferre’s spirits were roused, if only for a second. “I’ll see you out the front in a couple of minutes, ok? I’d better get a jacket.”

“Great.” Enjolras smiled fully. “See you in a second.” He dived back into the crowd, and, within minutes, the pair of them were running along the road to catch the bus.

“Lucky that there’s still one going out at this time of night,” Enjolras panted, swinging onto one of the blue seats as Combeferre showed the driver his student card. “If we miss the last one back, I’m never going to forgive you.”

“Sucks,” Combeferre grinned, taking the seat next to Enjolras’. “Sorry for being a grouch – I just really wanted to get away from all of that.”

“All of what?” Enjolras suddenly frowned. “Is it about your tattoo?”

“Yeah.” Combeferre pulled up his shirt slightly. “It was disappointing, to say the least.” Instead of the curlicue messages that often appeared on skin, his was a simple “ _hi”_ in block capitals. “How about yours?”

“Oh, that old thing.” Enjolras scratched the back of his neck. “It’s nothing.”

“But where is it?” Combeferre asked, curious. Enjolras was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and cropped trousers. “I’m confused.”

“It’s on my back.”

“And what is it?”

A few seconds later, Combeferre had fallen out of his seat laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Enjolras said indignantly as Combeferre scrabbled to stand up again, still howling, much to the disapproval of other passengers.

“You have a drunken litany on the virtues of the Greek god Apollo on your back! I’d say that that’s funny!” Combeferre howled, pulling himself back up. “Oh my god, that’s going to be the one thing that I introduce you with for the rest of our days.”

“Don’t you even dare,” Enjolras replied warningly, swinging out of his seat and stepping over Combeferre. “Come on, it’s our stop.”

 

**oo**

“It’s my eighteenth birthday and it fucking sucks.” Courfeyrac stirred the one drink he had been allowed moodily as hundreds of people he didn’t know dealt drugs and traded meaningless compliments and danced. “Can we get out of here?”

“Is it really wise?” Grantaire replied thoughtfully. “Dan may well kill you if you escape.”

“He’ll have to catch me first. And since when were you so law-abiding?” His guitarist (and best friend) had never been one to follow the rules, especially those laid down by Dan Javert – he’d even taken people back to the bus on their last tour, which had resulted in him nearly getting fired when Dan had found out.

“Since it’s your eighteenth birthday and, if you go, you’re going to get trashed, so I’d have to go with you and I’m already skating on thin ice.” Grantaire smiled thinly. “Why don’t you ask Dan if you can leave? Say you have a headache or something.”

“Nice plan.” Courfeyrac leapt up, ignoring the unpleasant pounding in his temple. “I actually do have one. I’ll text Dan, just get me out of here.”

Grantaire gave him a sympathetic look. “You’re too hot, right? Why don’t you just take off the jacket?” Courfeyrac had been wearing a high-necked denim jacket all evening, despite the heat of the summer.

“I can’t!” Courfeyrac blurted out, blushing immediately. “Um, my tattoo is there and I’m not allowed to reveal it.”

“Seriously?” Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuck it. Dan can bugger off, we’re going out.”

“What does your tattoo even say?” Courfeyrac asked as Grantaire grabbed his hand and plunged them into the throbbing heat of the party, making their way towards the door.

“I’ll show you in a second.” Waiting until they were standing in the dimly-lit foyer of the club, Grantaire pulled the neckline of his shirt down to reveal the words, “ _my name is not Apollo.”_

“Well, that’s more than a little cryptic.” Courfeyrac frowned. “Mine’s awful. It just says _“Can I get you a drink?”_ That could apply to anyone!”

“Time to find out.” Grantaire threw up a hand to flag down a taxi. “Tonight’s on me.”

 

**oo**

“Where did you even hear about this place?” Combeferre asked loudly over the loud pop music that was blaring out of the club. “I didn’t know you knew about…clubs.”

“I have my sources.” Enjolras smiled briefly and flashed ID at the bouncer, who gave him a suspicious glance before dubiously waving the pair forward. “It’s also the first one I saw on Google Maps.”

“It’s…loud. And bright.” Combeferre shielded his eyes from the strobe. “But there is alcohol and there is £1 shots, so this place looks perfect.”

 

**oo**

“This looks fantastic!” Courfeyrac said eagerly as Grantaire got the driver to pull over. “I’ve never been clubbing before.”

“This place is an easy introduction.” Grantaire only had to give the bouncer a sardonic look as if to say _really? you’re trying to ID me?_ to get him to let them in. “It’s bright and alcoholic and full of people who want a good time. Also, £1 shots on a Thursday.”

“Let’s do this.” Courfeyrac surged forward eagerly into the crowd.

 

**oo**

When Combeferre had had his fifth one pound shot, he suddenly realised that the evening was _way better_ than he had originally thought it would be. “This is fab. This is grrrrreat.” Handing the barman his last pound coin and receiving a shot of something green in return, he downed it in one and turned around, almost falling off his bar stool. Enjolras was already out there somewhere in the milky twilight, probably dancing with a stranger. He wasn’t one of the most outgoing teenagers in the world, but Enjolras loved a party, and he especially loved a party where he had the opportunity to spread pro-worker propaganda. “Time to pahtay.”

Diving into the fray, he danced with first one person and then another, feeling the beat throbbing through him as he moved closer and closer to the speakers, looking out for the blonde ponytail and the delicate flush of porcelain cheeks that signified Enjolras, and ended up bumping into someone, who yelled “watch it!” without really turning to look at Combeferre, who turned with a start, because _blow him if that voice didn’t sound exactly like Courfeyrac._ But then the figure was lost into the crowd again and he was left to move on again.

He eventually found Enjolras dancing with a group of people, including a man with ginger hair who looked vaguely familiar and a scruffy-looking dark-haired man who looked drunk out of his skull. He was just in time to see the dark man look up and launch himself at Enjolras, shouting something that sounded like “ _oh, Apollo, have mercy on your Patroclus – bestow thy love upon me? oh, Apollo, sweet god of –“_

 _“_ Well, shit. Looks like that finally happened,” Combeferre said to himself. Enjolras was staring, awestruck, at the dark man, who was now hanging around Enjolras’ neck. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, and seemed far too sophisticated to be hanging out in a club like this, but he was staring at Enjolras like he was the only thing in the world and, wonder of wonders, Enjolras was staring back.

Someone blundered into him from behind, and Combeferre turned, ready to apologize, and found himself face-to-face with Courfeyrac.

He couldn’t think of anything to say at all, besides the obvious “ _oh my god, it’s you!”_ , but was relieved of the uncertainty when the man simply smiled and said in that _fucking amazing accent,_ “Hi.”

Mentally telling himself not to panic _because hi is a perfectly common introduction and there’s nothing that means that this man could possibly be your soulmate at all,_ he replied, “Um, can I buy you a drink?”

Courfeyrac’s mouth dropped open. “Your tattoo?” he whispered, Combeferre still somehow managing to hear him over the thudding beat. Barely even grinning, because this was _a dream, totally a dream, there was no way that this could be real,_ he lifted his shirt a little to reveal his tattoo, and looked up to see Courfeyrac turning and pulling down his collar to show his, in the neat little curlicue writing that Combeferre used for essays.

“No way.” Combeferre shook his head. “No fucking way.”

“How about that drink then?” Courfeyrac asked, smiling wickedly. “We seem to have a lot to talk about.”

 

**oo**

“I met my soulmate last night,” Courfeyrac said simply as he burst into Dan Javert’s office. “Um….on my way home. I met him and he’s perfect and he wants to be a doctor and he’s a fan and he’s taller than me and…”

“…and you are not to see him again.” Dan didn’t even look up from his papers. “It’s dangerous for your career and I will not tolerate it.”

“But – the tattoo?” Courfeyrac blustered, having lost all the wind in his sails. “This guy is my soulmate! I can’t just leave him!”

“Yes, you can. Because if you do, I am resigning as your agent.” Dan looked up. “What – you don’t think I’m serious? I’m not going to carry on working for an artist whose entire career and fanbase will go down the pan if he carries out what fate tells him to.”

“You dick,” Courfeyrac replied, turning purple. “You’re actually trying to control who I fall in love with?”

“I’m trying to do whats best for you and for your career. Chances are that the other boy is just infatuated. You’re famous, after all. It’s what fans do best.”

“That’s not true,” Courfeyrac replied automatically, but his mind was already beginning to windmill. What if Combeferre – perfect, sweet, gorgeous Combeferre, who had brought him a tequila shot and told him science jokes all evening – was just a fame hunter? It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “I’m going. Grantaire and I have rehearsal.”

“Grantaire won’t be returning to your band. I fired him.” Dan signed something else and threw a scrumpled up paper ball into the bin. “He led you into a dangerous situation. Yes, I know about the bar.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that,” Courfeyrac responded wearily. “And I’m going to go and find Combeferre later, whether you like it or not.”

“I will leave if you do.” Dan stood up. “And you’ll be cast out, adrift, with no agent, no contacts, no nothing.”

“At least I’ll have Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said stoically.

“Stupid boy,” Dan intoned, wearily shaking his head. “Haven’t I taught you yet that fate comes back around to bite you in the ass, no matter how hard you try to avoid it?”

 

**oo**

“He was amazing!” Combeferre yelled, his head buried in his pillow. “I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.”

“I can’t fucking believe it either, but you could at least keep your voice down.” On his bedroom floor, Enjolras was sitting with his head in his hands, trying to block the sunlight. “It was a hard night.”

“Are you going to see Patroclus again?” Combeferre asked teasingly, rolling over onto his back and batting away the thrown cushion. “Oh, come on, he was cute.”

“Tonight,” Enjolras replied, slowly rolling back onto the floor. “And I’m not prepared at all. And I’m also insanely jealous of your Irishman.”

“How did this even happen to us?” Combeferre asked the ceiling. “Two days after your birthday, the day of mine – some people wait a lifetime to meet their soulmates.”

“It’s kind of weird, don’t you think?” Enjolras asked slowly. “That we should both meet our soulmates in the same bar, almost at the same time, on the same day?”

“Not weird,” Combeferre replied quickly, “just coincidental.” But, already, cogs were whirring inside of his head. Courfeyrac and he both had fairly common phrase tattoos. They could have been completely mistaken – strangers instead of soulmates that happened to share one magical evening.

Enjolras was still chattering inanely in the background, but Combeferre was barely listening.

 

**oo**

As he stormed out of Dan’s office, Courfeyrac ran into another young man, dressed from head to toe in different patterns, none of which matched, and knocked over a stack of sheet music that went flying off into the wind almost immediately.

“Oh, crap. My bad,” he said, chasing after some of the scraps of paper that went floating off down the road and returning them to their owner. “I’m so sorry. Bad day, and all. And, you know, problems. Agents. God, I’m rambling.”

The man fixed liquid green eyes on him, the same colour as the summer grass after it’s been worn out after a hot August, and shook his head slightly, grinning from ear to ear. “Can I buy you a drink?”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And would you look at that, I completed a chaptered fic. That's exciting.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Courfeyrac sighed, shielding his eyes from the sun as they sat down in the café, mugs of iced coffee in hand. “I thought I met my soulmate yesterday.”

“Must have been a confusing couple of days for you.” The smaller man grinned slightly. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself, by the way. I’m Jehan, usually known as Jean Prouvaire McAfree.” He held out his hand, and Courfeyrac shook it, grateful that the man was distracting him from his whirlwind thoughts. “So, what did you say that your soulmate’s tattoo said?”

“Just hi.” Courfeyrac shook his head sadly, taking a long drink of the coffee. “Anyone could have been his soulmate. I guess that we both thought…you know.”

“And then I met you.” Jehan smiled again, once, briefly, before falling back into his puzzled gaze. “Can we take these to go? I’m actually supposed to be meeting with your agent.”

Courfeyrac got a sick feeling in his stomach. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you?” Jehan asked, standing up. “He’s hired me to collaborate with you on a couple of tracks on your next album.”

“On the violin?” Courfeyrac wasn’t normally this stupid, but he could feel the dread starting to pile up in his stomach. Surely this wasn’t how you were meant to feel when you truly met your soulmate? Surely it was meant to be – well, meant to be like when he’d met Combeferre. “Of course, yes.” He forced himself to stand up as well, to take hold of Jean’s hand (he couldn’t bear to call him Jehan, the familiar, not even in his mind), to leave the café with him, all the while feeling utterly wrong.

 

**oo**

“Has he texted you yet?” Enjolras asked heatedly, walking urgently towards Combeferre in their usual meeting place. “It’s been three days.”

“No. I’m sure he will, though.” Combeferre, in fact, wasn’t sure at all, and had been feeling icy fingers of upset crawling through his body ever since that evening. Too many people had said “ _hi”_ to him in the last few days to eradicate the possibility that Courfeyrac was, in fact, his true soulmate.

The fact was that, for the first time in his life, Combeferre didn’t know what to do.

Enjolras was beginning to talk again, so Combeferre forced himself to listen again. “Grantaire texted me last night. He got fired the day after the party so he’s out job-hunting at the moment, but he’s taking me out on Saturday.”

“Isn’t he a bit old for you?” As soon as Combeferre said it, he regretted it – Enjolras had always been sensitive about how young he looked for an eighteen-year old, so pointed it out was hardly a charitable idea.

Enjolras bristled. “He’s only twenty. He’s a professional musician and he loves mythology and cats and I hardly think age comes into the equation, Combeferre.” Combeferre winced internally – he always knew when Enjolras was irritated, because it was the only time when he called his best friend Combeferre instead of ‘Ferre.

“I’m sorry, Enj. It’s been a long day.” A day full of disappointment and missed calls and blues songs, but Combeferre wasn’t about to tell Enjolras that. “I just really wanted him to get in touch again.”

“And he will. Come on, you guys were getting on like wildfire!” Enjolras took his friend’s hand as comfortingly as he could. “He’ll text. I know he will.”

Three days later, when the news hit television screens everywhere, Combeferre didn’t react as explosively as he had thought he would. Instead of bursting into tears or demanding an explanation, he simply rolled over on the sofa and curled into a ball, convinced that he had lost the one person he knew he was meant to love.

 

**oo**

“So, here we have the most successful jazz singer of modern times, Courfeyrac DeLacey, who will be releasing his new album next year.” The lacquered TV host grinned at him through a haze of lipgloss and blonde hair, prompting Courfeyrac to bare his teeth in reply. “So, how are things going for you, Courfeyrac?”

Dan had given Courf a list of answers with strict instructions to answer them verbatim and to not deviate from the pattern. Courfeyrac now knew every word by heart, and so replied, through gritted teeth, “They’re going well, thank you, Lisa. Both in terms of the album and…” _oh my god he had to say it or he’d lose everything_ “..and in private as well.”

“In private?” Lisa guffawed, a strand of blonde hair sticking to her lipgloss. “I believe you turned eighteen recently. How has that been going for you?”

 _Or Dan will leave and your career will be on the floor._ “Very well, so far. Everything seems normal, and I’m enjoying being able to go out a little more.” That got some laughs, because that was the standard answer – you go out, you enjoy yourself, you find your soulmate. That’s how it works.

“A little bird tells us that there is someone special who you met just a few days ago.” Lisa turned to the audience. “We want to hear everything! How did you two meet? Who _is_ he?”

 _And you wouldn’t want to fail, would you, Courfeyrac? Not after you built yourself up from nothing._ “His name is Jean Prouvaire.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “And he is my soulmate. We met when I crashed into him coming out of my agent’s office and knocked his papers everywhere.” Forcing a grim smile onto his face, he sat through the cooing that followed, knowing that the news would be everywhere within a few minutes.

Combeferre would find out.

 

**oo**

“Combeferre?” Enjolras knocked tentatively on his friend’s door, a few months later. “Can I come in, buddy?”

“Sure.” Combeferre pushed his glasses onto the top of his head. “It’s been a while, Enj.”

“It has.” Enjolras stood, awkward, out of place, uncomfortable. The room was almost bare now, all the CDs, posters, memorabilia that had been devoted to Courfeyrac having been thrown out. Now, there were a few moths pinned to display boards on the wall above Combeferre’s bed, some quiet classical pieces playing on the stereo, and Combeferre’s desk was littered with scraps of paper. “What are you doing, then?”

“I’m writing a paper.” Combeferre’s eyes lit up, having been accepted to study Psychology and Education at university in the next year. “Just to consolidate my uni place. It’s about the placebo effect in relation to the Soulmate convention.”

“What are you using as a case study?” Enjolras asked, almost knowing what the answer would be.

“Fans who meet their celebrity idols.” Combeferre swept some books off the bed and motioned to Enjolras to sit down. “I think it’s fascinating. In what circumstances can an echo of the Soulmate connection be felt outside of a true Soulmate relationship?” His eyes flicked up to the moths, to some postcards he’d had from friends over the years. “It felt real, Enjolras.”

“I know it did.” Enjolras sat down on the bed and sighed, picking up one of the books. “Clinical Psychology, huh? Are you excited?”

“I’m excited to be getting out of London. Out of the country.” Combeferre had been accepted to University College Dublin, and was leaving in the middle of September. “It’s something new, isn’t it? How are you and Grantaire, by the way?”

“We’re doing fine.” Enjolras fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “We went to a Beethoven concert a few nights ago, which was interesting.”

“When’s the wedding?” Combeferre asked, only half-joking. Enjolras had been acting as if he were literally cemented to Grantaire’s body over the last few months, which was why he barely saw his best friend any more. “Do I get an invitation, or will I scare the children?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Shaking his head, Enjolras stood up again. “I actually brought something for you. From Grantaire. I don’t know what it is, or what you need it for, but that’s what I came to say.” He wiped fiercely at his eyes. “I hate to see you like this, Ferre. Will you come out with us tonight?”

Combeferre took the proffered piece of paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks, but no. I want to get this essay finished.”

Enjolras shrugged, before reaching out a hand to shake Combeferre’s, and then changed his mind completely and swept his friend up into a hug. “Please come back to Les Ami’s, ‘Ferre?” he asked quietly, referring to the political group that both belonged to. “It’s not the same without you.”

“I can’t.” Grantaire would be there. Grantaire, Enjolras, all his other friends who now pitied him. “I’m really sorry, Enjolras.”

“It’s okay.” Enjolras looked like he was about to say something, but instead hurried out of the room.

 

**oo**

“What do you mean?” Courfeyrac’s mother almost yelled, her strong Irish accent penetrating even the hundreds of miles between them. “You’re getting married?”

“Apparently so.” Courfeyrac sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand. Jehan had moved in with him only a couple of months ago, but Courfeyrac was already beginning to feel the stress. And Dan’s most recent announcement – that he and Jean Prouvaire would be getting married as soon as possible, to enhance both of their career prospects – had thrown him into even further discomfort. He’d tried to smuggle a message to Combeferre via Grantaire when he’d actually seen the man in a bar one evening, but he’d not heard anything back.

He’d all but given up hope, and had resigned himself to the marriage as far as letting his family know of his impending nuptials.

“And you’ve only told us about this now?” His mother screamed. “We didn’t even hear about your tattoo, we’ve not met your soulmate, and now you’re getting _married?”_

“It’s not my fault!”, Courfeyrac shouted back, finally losing his temper. “Dan’s not letting me talk to anyone about anything so that he can sell it to the right newspaper when anything happens to me.”

“There’s no need to get angry, love.” His mother’s voice was reproachful. “I was just saying, you’re our flesh and blood, and we miss you.”

Courfeyrac thought back to the cottage in County Mayo, where he’d started out playing piano in the sitting room for his family, the smoky, foggy air stirring in the evening. Then, it had been pubs, hearing the clink of beer glasses as he attempted to create the same atmosphere, until the magical night when Dan had heard him and taken him on. Then to Dublin, Belfast, Manchester, London, and there he’d stayed ever since.

“I miss you too.” He pressed a knuckle to his mouth to try and stop himself crying _because there’s no way out of this, Courfeyrac, marrying your soulmate is what you were destined for all along._ “You are all invited, don’t worry.”

“But how will we afford the fare, love?”

“I’ll pay. For all of you. The aunts and grandparents as well.” Courfeyrac’s family, one of the battiest and largest in Mayo, was famed for being both incredibly generous and universally broke. “Please come.”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Courfeyrac started as he heard Jean’s key turn in the front door. “And I’m desperate to meet this Jehan boy. What’s he like? Is he good to you?”

 _You’re lucky that he would take you at all, with the way you’ve been acting._ “Yeah, mum. He’s good to me.” Courfeyrac swallowed the lump in his throat. “Look, I’ve got to go. Talk to you soon, mum.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” He could almost _hear_ her rolling her eyes, and smiled. “See you soon, son.”

 

**oo**

“ _Combeferre._

_The first thing to say is that there is no excuse for how I have acted towards you. I am so, so sorry if I have caused you any pain._

_The second thing to say is that this was all a mistake. Jean Prouvaire is not my soulmate. I’ve known it ever since he said those words – there’s not the same feelings as I had with you, and I’m scared. I’m scared all the time that I’m being forced to get married to a man I don’t love._

_The third thing to say is that there is a reason this is arriving with you so covertly – I’ve been banned from discussing my relationship, tattoo or soulmate with anyone, so I had to send it via Grantaire, who I only met by chance in a bar a couple of days ago (although it may, by now, have been a couple of weeks – you can never rely on Grantaire post)._

_Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that I need a sign from you. One sign, and I’ll break this off and I’ll leave my career if that’s what it takes. I just know that when I was with you, everything felt right and brilliant, and, even if we’re not true soulmates and have to live outside of society for the rest of our lives, I’d be alright with that. I think that’s what I’m trying to say, anyway._

_I’ve never been more sure of saying these words, so here goes._

_I love you._

**oo**

Courfeyrac bounced up and down on his heels nervously, clicking his tongue as he adjusted the buttons on his uncomfortable suit jacket. Jean Prouvaire, looking perfectly natural in his skinny jeans and striped blazer, sent him a few strange looks. “Are you okay, love?”

Courfeyrac suddenly turned. “I can’t do this, Jean.”

“It’s just jitters,” Dan replied, tapping away at his smartphone. “You’ll be fine. All you have to do is smile, announce the engagement and then you can leave.”

“But I –“

“That’s _all you have to do,”_ Dan repeated firmly, jabbing. “And you’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Just jitters.” Courfeyrac smiled as best as he could, but didn’t miss Jean’s curious glance. “We’re doing this, after all. It’s not like I can just – “

His phone vibrated, and he shook it out of his pocket almost subconsciously, seeing a text from an unrecognised number and opening it.

_“You wanted a sign. This is it. C.”_

And there he stood, absolutely paralysed, while the backstage runners started to try and manouver him and Jean towards the stage door. This couldn’t be happening.

Dan grabbed his hand and motioned at him wordlessly to put his phone back in his pocket, just as the announcer read out their names to storms of applause. Shoving it back in his pocket, Courfeyrac thought for a second before giving Dan the finger as the pair of them walked out onto the recording stage.

“So, Courfeyrac!” It was the same presenter – Liza? Lena? – but with a different lipgloss – this one was redder somehow. “It’s been a few months since I last saw you and I gather that the pair of you have some very big news!”

Courfeyrac gave Jehan a desperate look, and was shocked to see utter contentment on the man’s face. Smiling a little, Jean nodded and mouthed, “It’s okay.”

Turning to face the canned audience, Courfeyrac gulped and began to speak.

 

**oo**

“Actually, the big news is that I will be retiring from music, effective immediately.” Courfeyrac swallowed, hearing shocked gasps from Lisa, from the audience, and faint sounds of swearing coming from backstage. “I have decided that, due to creative differences, I can no longer work with my agent and with…” Jehan gave him a gentle nod. “…and with my band. Thank you all for supporting me over my short albeit fun career, and thank you for being there for me over the last few months.” Not knowing what to do, he stood up, took an awkward little bow and left the stage.

Combeferre simply sat there for a second with his mouth hanging open, even two days later, when the chat show was shown on TV. “What the hell did I just watch.”

“I’m not even sure.” Enjolras and Grantaire were both sitting next to them, their mouths hanging open. Enjolras was the only one still capable of talking. “It seemed that he just dumped his boyfriend, his agent and his career all in one go.”

“On TV,” Grantaire whispered. “The boy has balls.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, does it?” Enjolras asked in an almost accusatory tone. “What? I thought you were over him?”

Grantaire simply pulled a cushion out from underneath his head and whacked Enjolras with it. “He’s not over it.”

The doorbell rang over the increasing sound of squabbling, so Combeferre stood up, regarded his best friend and their boyfriend fighting fondly, and headed to get it. The rest of his family were out for the evening, so they had their house to themselves, and Combeferre had invited Enjolras over because, fuck it, he was getting lonely and he’d be going to Dublin in a couple of months, so what better chance would he have to smooth things over?

The door, when he opened it, was not the cold caller he expected.

“Hi.” Courfeyrac smiled hopefully up at him from the bottom of the steps, the evening light glowing on his cheeks and the small bunch of (really ugly) flowers he held in his hands.

Combeferre simply shook his head and smiled. “Can I get you a drink?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> ?? This should only be two parts because I am disgracefully lazy.


End file.
